The Mage Lord of Harrenhal
by jfrost22792
Summary: The Whent's of Harrenhal have long been plagued by the curse of their ruined castle. It left them without a child or heir, it left them a house near its end. The Old Gods, however, see a chance for something long lost to again be found. A line of magic, dead to the world, will rise along with the ruins of the Great Castle of Harrenhal, and Westeros will never be the same.
1. Prologue

**I own nothing of the licensed content involved in this story.**

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Lord Walter Whent was not the happiest of men, he had never truly wanted to come north to simply to pay his respects at Brandon Stark's 18th nameday celebration.

Now, he had to ride through this god's forsaken place, the cold was setting his old bones to a terrible ache. The boat ride from Maidenpool to White Harbor was bad enough, but this horrid trip through the rough of the North would be the death of him.

And then what?

There was no heir to his house, the curse of his lands, the ruined castle of Harrenhal, had seen to that. When he had taken his father's seat, he had thought the curse all nothing more than a murmurer's superstition.

Of his five children though, only his daughter remained alive past her twentieth name-day. It would matter little in the end, she was wed to a Frey, her first attempt at the birthing bed led to a still born, and nearly her own grave. Not that her husband cared, we wanted an heir, and she was heavy with child once more, the Maester did not expect her to live through the attempt a second time.

The curse would take the last of them soon, leaving him to a cold wife and even colder castle.

In truth, there was honestly little to be gained by traveling here, gaining the favor of house Stark would mean little when he had no heir to secure his seat for. The crown would take Harrenhal when both he and wife had passed. They had both passed the age of bearing children, there was little left but to mourn the passing of another house foolish enough to think they could best the curse of Harrenhal.

He, and the five guards that he could spare from his war-torn garrison, froze as the sounds of snapping branches echoed form all around them. His guards reached for their swords, the steel did little to save them from the arrows the fell the two to his right.

The sparse woods around them exploded in movement as ten men in raged leathers charged them from their hiding placed behind the trees, wildings or bandits, there was likely little difference.

Men died far too easily, Lord Whent had always remembered the first lesson his father had taught him when he took to learning the sword. Men, for all our great accomplishments, could still die to the simplest of things, titles, after all, were no defense against cold steel.

Five of the attackers died before they had managed to bring down another two of my guards, they had left their backs open, foolish.

A horse has its strengths, it gives height, and such a better angle to strike, but every advantage comes with a counter weight. Horses bled just as easily as men, proof enough by the startled cry the one beneath me was giving out. Had I been thirty years younger, I'd have sprung from my saddle and continued the fight, but I was nearing my seventieth year, such feats were long behind me.

I could hear the last of my guard's men cry out in pain as I fell to the earth, my last thoughts were of pain, as my horse crushed me beneath its massive bulk.

* * *

I stirred awake to the sound of a crackling fire; I had not thought to wake at all, a ransom then?

They were fools then, there was no wealth left in Harrenhal, and my wife would only laugh at the news of my imprisonment, perhaps a letter of thanks. She had been kind once, but the loss of some many children would chill the heart of even the kindest soul.

"I see you have finally awoke, my dear Lord Whent."

I opened my eyes slowly, the starry sky of a clear night greeted me. I turned to the sound of my capture, it had been a women's voice, harsh and scratchy as it might have been. She sat by the five, dressed in torn and half rotted leathers. Her eyes looked up to meet mine, there was sheer agony in them.

I had seen that kind of pain before, in eyes of those tortured to point where death became a kind of longing, a treasured idea that meant they could finally leave the pain behind. Her eyes glowed in the darkness around them, the swirling violet, the most unnatural color I had ever seen. I could not help the shiver that ran down my spine at the sight of them.

"Are you my captor, or my savior?"

It was odd question, I should not have asked as I had already known the answer. She looked every inch the wildling that the Northman had described in their stories.

"I am neither, though in some ways perhaps I am both." She moved closer now, removing the distance that had been between us and knelt at my side.

"I killed the men who killed yours, I mended your broken body, I even saved one of the horses that remained alive. There is a price for my aid however, the Old Gods told me of you Walter Whent, your price has already been promised."

Old Gods, the trees the Northman prayed to, so they wanted payment too, not as different from the Seven as they say. I had finally gotten a clear view of the women, she was young, no more than twenty and six, her skin was as pale as snow, and her hair the same blond as a yew of wheat. She was beautiful, though the constant anguish in her eyes left her the image of a unyielding flower among desolate lands.

"What do you and your gods want? I have no real wealth, what could I have that your gods would want?"

She smiled, it was thin, likely her pain allowed for little more than forced gestures of levity. "It is not your wealth that I require, only your seed."

There were no words I could find to reply, so I simply laughed. It was a rough and humorless thing, even to my own ears it sounded empty. "I hate to break it to you girl, but this old body of mine won't exactly cooperate with you. Even if you could find some way, you'd get nothing but dust out it."

She merely shook her head in denial, "Your body will service well enough, tonight we shall lye together, and when you depart in the morning you will have left your child within me."

Those unnatural eyes of hers looked so certain, so damn certain. I would have laughed had a whore come boasting something so foolish, but this woman was no whore, no, she something altogether foreign.

"Why would you wish a child from me? My line is neither old nor powerful, I have nothing but a ruined castle with no…."

"Heir" She finished when I faltered, her grin was feral now, like a wolf who had caught the hair unsuspecting. "You shall have the child of our union as your heir, the gods have seen your empty line, you are not the only lord with a barren house, but you are the one they have chosen."

"Why?" I was waking, slowly, from my shock, an heir, even a bastard one, but an heir none the less. My wife and I had been barren for decades, I, in my desperation, had taken to whores for a time after my last son's death. No child had ever come from it, only pain and an empty marriage bed.

"I carry within me something that is not mine Walter Whent, I walked where the gods bid, into lands where men have not tred in millennia. There I found the last spark of a dead people, so lost in their own power that it led to an end of their people, and the rise of another."

I watched as she stood, first the rotten leathers around her fell away, I would have felt my old heart race as her clothes fell away, had I not been in horror of what was underneath.

The veins of your body were black, as if some great poison had done its work. Her body seemed to pulse, the veins of her body pulsating and bulging like some horrid nightmare.

"I took it into me, the last spark, the last drops of blood that dwelled there, in the last room guarded from the unending winter. The last of their legacy, preserved even from their own calamity. The Old Gods have spoken, the line of people lost must grow again, and I am to carry the first."

"What are you talking about, legacy? People?" The question was seemingly ignored, she began to strip my own clothes form me, I had long since grown out of bashfulness.

"Old magic Walter Whent, ancient, a people long lost even before the first men stepped upon these shores, our son shall carry that magic forward, though I will be lost before he grows to it fully. I was never meant to carry it, there is magic in my blood Walter Whent, even now it burns away my insides. Though it also keeps me alive, sustaining what it burns away, at least until it finds its home in one who was meant to carry it."

"Magic?" What sort of game was she playing, even as I wanted to cut down the preposterous notion, could I call her a liar? Her eyes and body seemed to far from the natural, the whole situation was too far from normal to simply dismiss the idea out of hand.

But to believe it….

"Your castle, ruined as it is, is drenched in it, the dragons fire on your stone, the Gods Eye among your waters, the ghosts that wander empty halls, the curses laid on those that dwell there. It is in the very land, one of the reasons the gods chose your barren house, better your ruined hall, as grand as it once was, then a perfect hall away from any and all that will allow him to learn."

She straddled my hips, reaching down grabbing me, for the first time in a decade I felt myself stiffen. How? I was long since flaccid…magic? It seemed a fools thought, but then nothing happening here belonged in a sane man's contemplation. It was wrong, in too many ways to express it was wrong.

"My life will flee me as the magic I stole becomes his, a woman will come to your ruined hall. She will bring the child, name him what you will. She will bring more than just the child though, old tomes to help him learn, stolen all the same, though the dead will not miss them. They are to be his, viewed by no other, not even you." Leaning forward, I groaned as her body pressed against me in earnest, "Do you agree with my payment, Walter Whent?"

I could only nod, an heir was all that mattered. Magic, even if it was more than fairytales and fools gossip, was meaningless in comparison to that. I could live a year, see if this was true, I could wait on the women to deliver the child, whatever the child was, he would be a Whent. If no child ever arrived, then I would be no worse off than before. Keeping books away from prying eyes, a small price for a hopeless dream long abandoned.

I moaned as she slid me inside of her, she made no sounds as she continued, it was only moments before it was over. My seed was spent, and if her words were true, it was my son she now carried. Darkness took me, whatever strength I had gained after being crushed beneath my horse was long since spent. I fell into restless sleep.

* * *

I woke to a dead fire and an empty clearing, I would have though it a dream, had my clothes not been in a discarded pile next to me. I stood slowly, my body protesting the movement in aches and pains. I dressed quickly, true to the woman's words, there was a painted mare tied to the tree near the edge of the clearing.

It occurred to me now, I no idea of the woman's name. With all that she had been saying, asking her name was the last of my concern at the time. Though, if she had wanted me to have it, she would likely have told me it.

A son…

If all that she had said was true, then I have a year's wait ahead of me.


	2. Prayers

**I own nothing of the licensed content involved in this story.**

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A year and a day, I would have never thought time could move so slowly. Every day had become a labor, a torturous game of waiting strung along by a fools' hope in magic and second chances.

I had prayed every day, at first to the Seven, but they had never bothered with my prayers before. Not when my sons were lost to war, and again my prayers were greeted with empty tidings when my only girl passed not three moons back, her little girl only just surviving the birthing bed.

No, the Seven gave no thought to my ruined house.

The woman had spoken of the Old Golds though, and if the Seven had no love for my house, then perhaps the Old Gods would listen.

Harrenhals' godswood wasn't like the ones I had seen in the north. Their godswoods were generally no more than an acre, but Harrenhals' stretched on for twenty. The old godswood had been locked away and ignored long before my grandfather took lordship over Harrenhal, the old man had been so devout that he'd squandered what little wealth he'd had on building that pathetic little sept inside the walls.

The walls of the godswood stood tall, twenty feet high and not a stone had been touched by the dragon's fire.

If only the rest of Harrenhal had been so lucky.

I moved through the old iron gates, and just like the hundreds of times before, I felt a presence watching me. The Old Gods were strong in this place, and I was only tolerated, not welcomed.

I made my way up the overgrown path through the heart of the woods, centuries of neglect leaving it little more than a vague impression among the overgrowth. The trees here at least were beautiful, the stream that cut throughout the woods in all directions had seen to its health even when the people outside of these walls had died of drought and famine.

Ash and Sentinel trees made up the greater bulk of it, the green bark of the ash trees, which could have stood no more than twenty feet high, stood out clearly against the towering grey sentinels', their mighty trunks reaching well over the walls of their enclosure.

It was at least half an hour before I reached my destination, my arrival marked by the changing of the trees. No longer was I surrounded by green and grey bark, instead a small sea of black bark laid at the heart of the godswood, Ironwood.

At first, I had been shocked to have seen it in a place such as this. Ironwood grew no further south than Winterfells' godswood, and even then, in much smaller numbers than this. Not that there was enough to use or sell truly, only the acre at the heart of the enclosure was Ironwood, but that it was here at all was a testament to the age of this place.

Even Harren the Black could not bring himself to ruin it.

An there, at the heart of the sea of Ironwood trees, a Heart Tree, sitting atop a small mound, its ashen root spread into the large creak seated beneath it. The creak spread-out into small tributaries, likely carrying away the water that kept the godswood thriving.

Rage, loss, the pain that comes from having seen to many tragedies. The face carved into the Heart Tree, a face contorted in anguish and fury. Red sap, all too similar to a man's blood, ran slowly from the second day I had come here for prayer.

Did the Old Gods answer all prayers in blood…

I knelt, bending my knees into the moss-covered soil beneath me, and I prayed.

I prayed for the Old Gods to keep their word, I prayed for a second chance at a family I had long buried, but more than anything, I prayed for magic.

A foolish dream would need nothing less.

When I had finished I rose, wiping a stray tear from my eye before it had the chance to fall. The trek back was slow, though if that was from the heaviness of my feet or my thoughts I do not know.

Exiting the godswood forced me back to a reality, there was nothing green in Harrenhals outside of those walls.

"My lord, Lady Shella is calling for you in the great hall."

I looked to the man, Orsan, a young knight, and one of the few to still remain in my service. His copper hair and pale, squared, features bespoke his Stone Dornish heritage. His parents, a pair of wandering merchants, had been beset by highwaymen. When my patrols had come upon the scene, they had found him, a boy of little more the ten winters, shivering in fear over the bodies of his parents.

My Shella, back before our children's loss had frozen her heart, had insisted in taking him into the household. That had been near thirteen years ago now, and the boy had acquitted himself well enough at my side during these years of peace, that a knighthood had been well earned.

A peasant turned knight, I doubt another lord would honor it, but it would always stand in Harrenhal.

The godswood was fairly close to the great hall at least, sometimes the sheer size of Harrenhal worked against these old bones. I looked around me as I made my way back, Orsan following closely behind.

I loved my ruined castle, very nearly as much as I hated it.

The strong walls, two hundred feet high and sixty thick, stretched on around me. Each of the four walls had a length of five miles from end-to-end, only The Wall and Kings Landing could boast longer walls, and even then, only The Wall was taller. Kevin Lannister once told me I could fit the breath of Lannisport inside my walls, that would be more impressive if I could even get men atop them.

The dragons fire had made walking the walls a perilous endeavor, the walkways were reduced to little more than a bubbled and bitted mess.

Most of the grounds inside the walls were a bleak display of negligence, all neglected soil and tired servants. I was happy to be away from the sight as I finally reached the massive oak doors of the Great Hall.

A lone guard manned the doors, he sprung to open them hurriedly at the sight of my arrival. Entering the Great Hall, I squinted to see in the semi darkness, we could only afford to keep three of the thirty-five hearths burning at any given time.

I saw Shella sitting on her smaller throne next to mine on the raised platform, beside her sat my empty seat, Harren's throne. The great thrones crafted by Harren the Black when Harrenhal was meant to serve as the capital of his kingdom.

They were perhaps the grandest things remaining in Harrenhal that hadn't been scorched in dragons' fire, or sold off to cover the cost of maintaining the bare minimum to keep this ruin livable.

The thrones were carved from solid marble, their backs standing as taller than any man or woman could measure, and all around their sides and back were depictions of house Hoares' crest. Scenes of sailing ships, flourishing vineyards, proud forests, and finally, a murder of crows in flight, all inlaid in gold and silver.

They were thrones meant for a ruling King and Queen, now they served only as a constant mockery to any fool who thought to call themselves "Lord" of Harrenhal while the once mighty seat crumbles around them.

As I neared, I noticed Shella was acting strangely, she was fidgeting in her seat, a habit she had kept from the excitable young woman I had once been lucky enough to wed. I wonder what has gotten her so excited…

She had been nearly inconsolable since our last child went to the Stranger.

It was then that I noticed the form the young woman with two men standing beside her, a large trunk was sat atop the table behind them.

I hurried my steps as fast as my brittle bones would carry me, my heart pounding in my chest every step of the way.

"Walter, someone has arrived at this late hour, and this young woman said she has something of yours to deliver." Shella's voice was an equal mixture of excitement and accusation, but I felt warmth in her voice, and I had missed that so dearly over the years.

I reached the podium and looked the woman over, she was dressed in simple traveler clothes, more importantly, she was holding a tightly wrapped bundle in her arms.

"My brothers and I owed her our lives mi'lord, and this was what she asked for in return." The woman had the look of a Northman to her, I could easily see her story playing out, it had been the same for me.

She shuffled the bundle in her arms gently, before making to hand it over to me. "Take the babe to his father she said, the Lord Whent will remember. We were told to bring the chest as well, we'll leave you now, mi'lord."

Normally I would have offered shelter for the night as the sun was beginning to set, but I was far too lost in the sight of the sleeping child in my arms to pay the thought any attention.

He had my nose and my ears, even as he seemed to have kept his mother's soft wheat colored hair. I laughed to myself as I felt the relief wash over me, it hadn't been a damned fools hope after all.

"I have a son"

"Walter…" I looked to my wife, she was standing just a few feet away, trying to see the child in my arms. She had always had a soft spot for children, and she had doted on all of ours horribly. It had only served to make it worse for her now that they had all gone.

"Would you like to hold him, Shella?" I was loath to let this small miracle out of my arms for even a moment, but the yearning in her eyes told me she needed to feel the warmth of a child in her arms again.

She had spent enough years wishing for it, perhaps even more than I had. We could have had our granddaughter here, had the Lord Frey not rebuffed our request for an audience.

She nods to me hesitantly, shivering slightly from our contact as I place the babe into her arms. The effect was immediate as her face lit up with a soft smile.

Gods how I had missed that smile…she coos to the baby boy, soft nothings that had me smiling as I watched on. Shella looked so alive, I had missed her laughter, her soft touches when she thought no one was looking, but most of all I missed how she used to make everything in the world less harsh with only a few gently whispered words.

"I'll tell you the story of how he came to be tonight, but know that he is mine, and if he's here, it means that his mother died birthing him." I could see the brief flash of sympathy flash through her eyes, she knew loss better than most.

Then came the hunger, I could see the desire welling up in her. The look in her eyes when she looked up and met mine…there wouldn't have been a man strong enough to break the steel behind that resolve.

"He has one now"

That was all that needed to be said, Shella didn't care that she hadn't carried him for the first few months of his life, she would be there for the rest of it. I sighed deeply in relief, I hadn't even realized I'd been holding my breath.

"He'll need a name" I had named all of our sons, she had named our daughter, but I wanted her to decide for him.

To name our last son.

"Harren, we'll name him Harren Whent…maybe then the curse will leave at least our last child be." Her voice broke at the end, I wrapped my arms around her, it had been too long since she let herself cry.

"Harren, it is."


	3. A Better End

**I own nothing of the licensed content involved in this story.**

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"My lord, the Hand will see you now."

I nod to the lad I can only assume is Jon Arryn's squire, I stand quickly as I move to follow him in. It had taken two days to get this meeting, likely Jon's not so subtle way of telling me he wished I'd sent a letter instead.

Fair enough I suppose, the King hasn't exactly made a secret of his dislike of what little is left of my family.

How I wish I had never held that damn tourney.

"My lord Hand" I give a slight bow as I enter, a good start for what will likely be a volatile conversation.

"Lord Whent, always a pleasure to have you in the Red Keep."

Liar.

We shook hands before he offers me a seat, I wonder if he knows why I'm here? Harren had been at Harrenhal for over three years now, I suppose the Spider would have little trouble picking up the tale, if he bothered with such a comparatively small matter to begin with.

Shella had kept him hidden away during the tourney, too afraid of what the Mad King might do if he learned house Whent had a possible heir. We needed the King to legitimize his inheritance, but there was no way of knowing how Aerys would have reacted to the crown losing the right to claim Harrenhal.

It had been safer to wait for Prince Rhaegar to take the throne, but the "Silver Prince" was dead, and a Stag now ruled the Seven Kingdoms.

I missed them already, it's nearly three weeks from Harrenhal to Kings Landing, and every day I grow more worried that something might have befallen them in my absence. The journey alone has taken a heavy toll on me, I would likely never leave the walls of Harrenhal again once I returned.

My body was simply too old for the strains of long travels. I wonder how many years this trip will cost me before it's over?

I'll make the trade, thinking about the first time I had seen those swirling violet eyes looking up at me from Shella's arms, the laughter he brought the once dreary halls…it's an easy choice.

"With luck, I'll not need to take much of your time my Lord Hand. I'm not sure if word of my houses' fortune ever reached the Red Keep, but a son was born to me some years back."

His silence is telling. No congratulations or well wishes, he knows what I came here for, and he's already decided his answer.

"I take it that since your wife Lady Shella is past childbearing age, that the boy is of bastard birth." It was not a question, Jon Arryn is only two decades younger than myself, but I can see in his eyes that the Office of Hand is doing a fair job of catching him up before his time.

"Yes, I've come to request that due to the situation of my house, that my son be legitimized, so that I might make him my heir. I had intended to make the same request of Mad King for the last 3 years, but I worried how his insanity might influence him." Jon runs his hand over his brow, any foolish hopes he might have had about me making this easy on him, likely just evaporated.

"As you are no doubt aware, the King has only just recently ascended to his throne. While no one questions the legitimacy of his reign, the legitimizing of bastards always ruffles the other houses in the kingdoms. I would request, that in the best interest of stability, that we revisit this again in a few years' time."

The hard look in his eyes tells me this isn't up for discussion, I already know his reasons, are at best, half-truths. In honestly, he just doesn't want to have to face the King with anything that could set Robert off into a rage. I imagine that "Whent" and "Harrenhal" are only behind "Targaryen" in subjects that send the King into a fury.

"While the offer is gracious, and I do of course understand the need for stability in the realm. I would remind you Lord Hand, that several bastards throughout Dorne have been legitimized over the last year. I fail to see why one more in the Riverlands would cause a great deal more trouble."

We both knew the king had only agreed to that because he needed Dorne loyal, despite having killed several members of the Doran Martell's family. Only that wasn't an answer that John could give, and the irritation in his features tells me he knows it.

"I'm afraid I have given my final answer on the subject, Lord Whent." Lord Arryn's all but glaring at me now, seemingly challenging me to argue further. I only have a few years left to me, time to make them difficult.

"Lord Hand, as you said before, the Kings reign is new and precarious." Lord Arryn's shoulders tense, his eyes narrow, it seems he's picked up the change in the conversation. Nothing from here on out would be even passingly friendly, I wonder if he thought being married to my niece would stop the conversation from devolving into threats.

"I fought for the king in the rebellion, and I must admit that I find it strange that such loyalty is rewarded by allowing one of his loyal vassals houses to die out when stopping it from happening costs him nothing more than a moment of his time. If this is how he rewards loyal allies, I wonder how secure his onetime enemies must feel."

There was nothing veiled about that threat, it was common knowledge that Robert still hated the Reach and Dorne. Many of the lords there were still worried that the King would strip them of their lands and titles in a fit of pique. The rumors coming out of Kings Landing concerning his behavior after ascending to the throne were also…troubling.

There were whispers that the King's grief over the loss of Lyanna Stark had left him unfit to rule, only Lord Arryn and his effort to control the damage had left Robert with some sense of credibility. Word of the King's "betrayal" of a river lord that fought for him, and over a petty grudge no less, could severely damage whatever good faith Jon had managed to save.

"Those are dangerous words Lord Whent, I'm sure I simply miss interpreted them do to fatigue." Jon's hands shook, I was actually impressed he wasn't going off in a rage. The whole of the realm knew Jon Arryn loved the King like a son, to him this must feel like I'm threatening the safety of his family.

I suppose I am.

"It would be a shame if word of such things was to be sent to every seat from the Arbor to the Wall, that would be an awful lot of trouble, over such a small boy."

"You are playing a dangerous game Lord Whent, why shouldn't I simply have you executed for treason against the crown." Lord Arryn was very nearly yelling now, his strained control over his temper slipping.

"Because it wouldn't change the outcome, did you think I came here without knowing the hate the King has for my family?" I stood now, Lord Arryn mirrored my movements, both our fists clenched in our anger.

"I had the messages finished before I even left Harrenhal, if I do not arrive home before the month is out, the messages will be sent. Whether I have my head or not won't matter, the damage will still be done."

Jon's eyes study my own, trying to weigh the truth of my claims. Unfortunately for him, I hadn't been telling lies. I wasn't foolish enough to walk in here without insurance, the King's hate of my family was to strong, he'd never do my house a kindness.

Not unless I had a knife at his throat.

I could see as Lord Arryn's shoulders slumped, he runs his hands over face as he seems to fight to regain his calm. "I will have the documents sent to you at your inn in three days' time." He looks me in the eyes now, his own cold and bitter about the situation I've forced him into, "You have only a few years left to you Lord Whent, I suggest you spend them enjoying your new family inside of the Riverlands."

I simply nod in agreement, he doesn't bother to hide his scowl as he motions for me to leave. I nod politely to the young squire on the way out, he looks at me with a mixture of shock and horror. I suppose he's never seen someone so openly threaten the Hand of the King, not and live in any case.

I'm no fool though, I recognize the threat he had given at the end. The Hand had unofficially exiled me from court, a small price to pay overall. The King's response gave me pause however, I can only hope Lord Arryn doesn't tell him about the threat.

No, I can be certain that Jon won't. Robert's temper would demand retaliation to any threat, and the King's reputation couldn't take any more damage so early on.

My house was safe, in bad standing with all elements of the crown, but safe enough for now.

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"It's amazing how much can change in only nine years."

Shella takes my hand and smiles for me. Oh Shella, my strong brave Shella. If it had been her lying here, I wouldn't have had the strength to give such comfort.

These last few years feel like a cruel illusion, to have all the things I longed for, and yet so little time. My wife, no longer cold and distant. The warmth in her eyes when she looked at me or Harren was a sight to behold.

Harren…oh my poor boy, I didn't mean to leave him behind like this. I wanted to see him grow into a man. I wanted to see him get knocked on his arse when first took up the sword, and the pride in his eyes when got to see his own progress. I would see him fall in love, take a wife, and start a family.

I would never see him become a man, but I could at least hope that Shella would stay by his side a while still.

I shifted uneasily as my body shook with pains…it would not be long now.

Maester Tothmure had seen to me as best he could, but there was no cure for old age. All those years I spent with nothing to live for, and now that I have every reason to remain, my body fails me.

"Harren" I look over to him in the corner of the room, he's sitting at the small table I used for letters when I didn't feel like going to the study. He looked up from his book, the boy was always reading now, ever since Tothmure had started his lessons he'd taken to it like a bat to flight.

Me and Shella had told him what was happening, the lad was to smart not to notice my failing health. I explained as best I could, he was still only 9, there were somethings he was just too young to understand.

I'd raised him in the Old Gods, the Seven had abandoned our family long ago, I told him the Old Gods were calling me back and that he shouldn't be sad for me. He still cried every night, none of us had really left the room in the last three days. I, because my body wouldn't allow it, and them, because they wouldn't let me pass alone.

Harren left his book on the table, another of those heavy tomes out of that chest most likely. He made his way over to the bed and sat down next to me, his swirling violet eyes never meeting mine as he looked to his mother, I could see the tears falling again.

I reached slowly, taking his small hand into mine, "Harren, you will be Lord of Harrenhal now. Do you understand what that means?"

"Yes, papa."

His little head bobbed in acknowledgement, his loose wheat colored strands going every which way as he did. The little crack in his voice had my throat tightening all the more, "My brave little bat."

Shella shifted next to Harren, wrapping an arm around him and taking my hand with the other. I gave my best smile for her, the one she said made her fall in love with a fool like me in the first place. The one that managed to make her fall in love with me all over again in these last few years.

The world around me had started to blur around the edges, my body tingled as it started to grow numb.

"You'll watch your mother for me won't you? You know how she gets." Shella rewarded me with a laugh that quickly turned into a sob before she could catch it…always so brave for everyone else.

"Yes, papa."

He was crying full tilt now, his head buried in his mother's shoulder. I couldn't help but smile a bit at the scene, I had lived eighty-two years, longer than a man like me had a right to, and I was so sure I'd die alone and bitter.

Instead, I'm surrounded by people that love me. A wife too good for me, a son with a good heart and a strong mind. Yes, I could bear with passing like this.

"I love you"

I could feel as the last of my awareness started to fade away, had I said it aloud?

I hope I did. I hope I said it enough that if I hadn't, they would have known it regardless.


	4. Northward Bound

**I own nothing of the licensed content involved in this story.**

 **This is the last chapter changed as of 5/9/2018. If you have read any of the chapters before this, then you'll notice I have gone back and changed some of the information. I wasn't planning on returning to the story, not with the amount of venom I've gotten, because people seem to think having magic and Harrenhal in the same story somehow means I'm ripping off someone else's work. It kinda ruined writing on fanfiction for me to be honest, but I had a little free time between college and work, so this is me dipping back in and seeing how it goes.**

 **The largest issue I had with the story itself was Harren's age, so I've changed it so that he was born a year before Robert's Rebellion. This makes him 20, when Robb and Jon are 18 at the start of the war of Five Kings. An it gives me a solid seven years to play with storylines and character interactions before the war begins.**

 **I'm still not sure what the pairing for Harren will be, I thought of Sansa, but I'm more inclined towards a less used pairing, maybe an OC if I can't think of someone that works.**

 **I hope you enjoy the changes.**

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"Winterfell ahead, my Lord."

I looked back to the window of the coach, the soft summer snow falling onto my head, sending small shiver across my skin. Harren had stuck his head out of the coach window, his soft golden hair a stark contrast to the blanketed landscape around us.

He quickly escaped back into the semi warmth of the coach though, I was reminded for the umpteenth time that Harren had never seen a true winter in the Riverlands. The snow around us must have seemed utterly foreign to him.

It was still hard for the small group of twenty guards to get their bearings here. I was the only one of us with some experience in the North, my parents having traveled through the harsh lands in search of trade during my childhood.

I doubt any of us ever expected to find ourselves so far from home though, and that it would be for nearly two long years was likely hard for some of the men to swallow.

Lady Whent had made clear her concerns for Harren's health after her husband's passing almost a year ago. He had become increasingly withdrawn after Lord Whent died, and then there was the more… "peculiar" moments, that were starting to cause concern.

Harren had been caught more than once talking to thin air, as if having a conversation with a person obscured to the rest of us. At first, we had all thought he'd created imaginary friends to deal with Lord Whent's passing, and while that could be overlooked on account of his age, the various experiments he learned from those books were drawing attention.

It was no secret among the servants and guards of Harrenhal that our new lord was…unique. As a babe he would cry, and all the toys and loose object in the room would be flung about. Or he would want something and no adult was either willing to giving to him, or had their attention elsewhere, and out of nowhere it would fly into his arms.

The "oddities", as the residents of Harrenhal had taken to calling them, had reduced after the Maester had begun teaching him his letters. The old heavy tomes he began hauling everywhere, even to this frozen wasteland, seemed to have taught him a degree of control.

Unfortunately, it also seemed to teach him how to do other things with whatever it was.

It reached a tipping point when he turned a patch of scorched and melted stone on the castle walls back to its original state. While those who had gotten used to it were in awe, when words spread to the people of Harrentown, they quickly grew fearful of their new "possessed" Lord.

Three thousand terrified smallfolk were not to be easily dismissed, empty as their concerned might be.

I have every confidence that they would learn to love their new lord in time, but they needed to be eased into it. So, between wanting to give the people sometime to cool their fears, and the increasingly isolated behavior of Harren, Lady Whent felt it necessary to remove him from the castle for a short time.

Though I think there was another reason behind it as well, Lord Stark had two sons and ward near Harren age. Lady Whent was likely hoping that some friends around his age would help draw our young lord out of his shell.

The children in Harrenhal and Harrentown were all either afraid of him for this title, or their parents had warned them away because of his talents.

It was a great kindness that Lady Catelyn and Lord Stark had agreed to fostering Harren in Winterfell for a short while. Lady Catelyn had been exchanging letters with the Lady Whent, and sometimes, even Harren.

At least it seemed to have done him some good to be reminded that he had extended family out there, perhaps it would do him even more to spend some time among them. We all missed the outgoing, if bookish, child he had been.

I shook my head to drive the morose thoughts away, the lands of the North, while beautiful, too often inspired a certain level of brooding in him throughout the journey.

As we drew closer the high sun it seemed to illuminate Winter Town, the decent sized city that was built up outside the front of Winterfell. The houses seem to run more than even the length of the castle walls as they spread out over the vast snowy field. A city this size must house nearly twenty thousand people…how do the Starks feed them all come winter?

The people looked at us oddly as we passed through along the Kingsroad, the cleared path cutting through the heart of the Winter Town and directly the main gate. I heard a few mutterings about southrons, but for the most part the only action anyone took was to move out of the way of our horses, or for the children running about, trying to see who was in the coach.

It had an entirely different feel from the cities I had visited before, Kings Landing reeked of shit and the people often bled desperation. Lannisport was the personification of shameless gratification, a living temple to all that the Seven held wrong in man.

Harrentown…it was as bleak as its ruinous namesake.

We road through to open gates of the inner and outer walls, and spotted before a small group in the middle of the courtyard. While a few of the men looked to be Winterfell guards, the tall, grim faced man, standing next to a lad with auburn hair, was Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

"Lord Stark" I bowed my head briefly to the man, "I am Sir Orsan, Knight of Harrenhal, I am to serve as head of Lord Whent's personal guard."

Lord Stark nods in acknowledgement, "Well met Sir Orsan, you've made decent time up the Neck. I trust there was no issues along the way?"

"None my Lord, the journey was safe enough, given the route traveled." With greetings exchanged, I dismounted and went to open the coach for Harren, as I opened it I could see him sitting with his ear to the door. I had to bite back a snicker at the antics, he might be a Lord, but he was still more a child than anything else.

Opening the door, I was greeted by the sight of a pair of bashful, swirling violet eyes. The boy smiled a bit as I moved to the side and motioned for him to exit the coach.

Harren stepped out after a bit of hesitation, it wasn't hard to see how nervous the boy was. He shivered a bit as the, now unblocked, northern air hit him. He pulled his bear furred cloak tighter around himself.

I remember Lord Whent getting that for him when he was five, it would likely need replacing before we left here.

I shut the carriage door behind him, pretending not to see him flinch at the sound of his only escape closing off behind him. Harren had greeted other lords before, he had banner men of his own after all. I'd been there in the Hall of a Hundred Hearths when they swore him fealty.

The frightened boy lord, still grieving a father, and the arrogant sneering lords, their pride wounded at having to kneel to a child they thought "not right".

I watched in the background as he greeted Lord Stark, I couldn't help to feel relieved when the grim-faced man's eyes softened as Harren spoke. When the introductions were done, Lord Stark had his soon, Robb I believe it was, show Harren to his rooms.

After the boys had left, the courtyard exploded into a flurry of activity. Stable hands came out and started showing my men where to stable their horses as servant began unloading the back of the coach of the few trunks stacked there.

It was a good hour before we had all the horses and luggage settled, and even longer to get the men their places in the barracks. I was about to go see how Harren was doing when a servant arrived with a summons from Lord and Lady Stark.

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"My Lord, my Lady" I gave a quick bow to both as I entered Lord Stark's solar, I looked over them quickly as Lord Stark motioned for me to sit.

He was a grim man, this Ned Stark. Dark brown hair worn down to his shoulders, his face was long, but his jaw was set in the same steel that shaded his eyes. Lady Catelyn though, she was every inch the beauty the lords of the realm claimed. Hair the shade of fire, and eyes as blue as the waters of the Trident, it was not hard to see why the Riverlords were jealous of Lord Starks good fortune.

Though I wonder how many of them forget the price he paid for it…

"Take a seat if you would, Ser Orsan." Lord Starks voice is like a gruff rumble, a lordly command that I almost snap to obey. Taking a seat in a bench across from theirs, I can't help but feel their eyes following every movement I make. They seem horribly uneasy, not afraid or hostile, but unnerved none-the-less.

Lady Catelyn shifted slightly, seeming to search for the proper words for her own question, "My Aunt wrote that Harren was…special, and she did not mean it the way all mothers dote upon their children."

She left the question hanging there, a thick wall of silence seemed to descend in the solar. I knew my next words would have to be both honestly spoken, and carefully worded. Harren was no threat to their household, but I understand that the unknown can often be frightening in of itself.

"My Lady, Harren has always been able to do things that you or I, would simply be unable too." I swallow hard as I see her eyes narrow over the description, Lord Starks grim features, previously so impassive, now bears a slight frown.

"I can only describe it as magic milady, I know that sounds like a murmurs tale, but my Lord is anything but. As a babe he made the things within his nursery fly about when he was impatient or in want of attention. He was attacked by a hound once, shortly after his third name day. None of us were close enough to get the beast before it got to him as he toddled about after Lord Whent."

Lady Catelyn's eyes grew wide at this, no matter the reservations she had, he was still her kin and even still, no more than a bit of a thing.

"The beast lunged and he flung out his hands, normally that would have done nothing to a rabid hound, but in this case, the hound was thrown a good twenty yards. We could never explain it, but it likely saved the young Lords life." Of course, that's leaving out the part where the hounds neck had been snapped and its ribs crushed from the sheer force of it, though mentioning that would likely not be helpful at the moment.

"While I am glad for the young lad's safety, I believe what my Lady wife is truly asking Ser Orsan, is whether your Lord is going to be a danger to our own children?" Lord Stark had his eye set on mine, taking in every measure of my response.

"No, milord." I shake my head. I can only hope they can hear earnestly I mean it. "He is no threat to your children, just a lost boy trying desperately to find his way after losing a father far too early for any lad."

I bowed my head then, gritting my teeth as a silent prayer to the Mother for hope. They could easily send us all back to Harrenhal, there was real obligation to allow Harren's warding other than a promise they might now regret.

Words are wind after all, and what is the promise to one small lordling, to small yet to stand in his own battles.

I looked as I heard a long sigh, the grim-faced Lord Stark was still watching me like a weary wolf, but the frown marring his stone completion was gone. "Very well Ser Orsan, we will take you at your word for now."

"Thank you, my Lord. Truly, thank you…"


	5. What Makes a Man Brave?

**I own nothing of the licensed content involved in this story.**

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"Oh, how the mighty have fallen."

"Shut up, Robb"

Harren's quick reply only made me grin, "Maester Luwin warned you both, but no, you just kept on squabbling."

"Shut up, Robb!"

This time it was Theon that snapped at me, his glare only getting a barely suppressed laugh out of Jon, who was standing beside me, enjoying their misery as much as I was.

"You missed a spot"

Theon and Harren shifted their eyes to Jon, their stares, narrowed glares meant to silence. Jon didn't care though as he lifted his hand, pointing the far corner of the pens. "You also got a bit there on your face, Theon."

It took me a moment to catch on to what Jon had said, I tried to warn Theon, but it was already too late as he reached up to wipe his already clean cheek.

Leaving smears of shit where his figures touched…

Theon's face blanked for a long moment, the tension in the air rose as we all waited for his inevitable explosion. It was Harren that reacted first though, breaking out into raunchiest laughter. I tried to resist, but eventually Jon and myself broke down into fits as well.

Theon's face turned red at the mockery, unfortunately, it only brought out the blackish shit smeared across his face even more, starting us on another round of hysterics.

Theon could only take it so long though without lashing out, "You're the freak right, can't you just magic all the shit away?"

The silence that followed Theon's outburst was deafening, Harren glared back at oldest of us with genuine contempt. It became an unwritten rule in Winterfell, that when others saw his cousin doing things that could be described as "magical", they just went about their business.

"No, Theon. I cannot just "magic it away"." Harren looked almost insulted by the suggestion, "Magic isn't a toy."

"You say that, but didn't you make Arya and Sansa's snowmen dance around the courtyard just last moon?" Jon voice was tinted in amusement, the pull of his lips showing off one of his solemn brother's rare smiles.

"That was different, even I can't just wave my hand and make something disappear." Harren went to shovel the shit in the corner Jon had pointed out.

"Not so special then are you, Lord Bastar…"

"Theon!"

His glare cut to me, the urge to ignore my warning playing out clearly in his eyes. After a long moment, he huffs angrily, his cheeks flushed red as he holds onto what little self-control remains to him.

Theon spikes the shovel into the hard ground of the pen, before marching out. "I'm going to get the shit off me, you can finish the rest."

I half expected Harren call out after him, to threaten to tell Maester Luwin about him skipping out early. Harren doesn't respond though, just puts the last of his pile onto his shovel before moving back over to the cart, and dumping it in.

"He doesn't mean anything by it, you know…"

This had become an all too common discussion, Theon's mouth often left me trying to mend the bridges he constantly burned. The first year of his stay, it had been Jon that Theon made a target of, and try as I might, there was simply no way of getting Theon to curb his insults.

Then Harren came, and for whatever reason, Theon seemed to make a target out of him as well. While it took some of his focus off of Jon, I was worried at first for my cousin.

Turns out, it wasn't really needed. Harren was more than capable of tearing Theon down all on his own.

Jon moved into the pens without comment, taking up Theon's abandoned shovel and starting where he left off. I saw Harren look over his shoulder, and with a small, grateful smile, they turned silently to what little work remained.

It was hard, in moments like this, not to feel slightly jealous of how easily the friendship between his brother and cousin had grown.

We had been told about Harren's parentage before he even arrived in Winterfell, father had warned us to be delicate with the details.

The information had left Jon especially curious about my bastard cousin turned Lord…it was painful remembering the bitter sadness in my brother's eyes, as they left their father's solar. He had spent the fortnight leading up to Harren's arrival, unusually forlorn and quiet, speaking to others only if required.

I had worried, when Harren arrived, that he would isolate himself much the same way Jon had. His quite ways, and sad demeaner, had escaped no one notice in his early days here.

Truthfully, he likely still wouldn't have opened up to us if Jon and I hadn't accidentally entered the Godswood during his prayers. It took a few, probably overly forward, questions about his presence there before he told us how his father raised him in the Old Gods.

After that it had been a simple thing to take him along when our father took us to pray, or when he was giving lessons in the old ways of the First Men.

Theon had never cared to join them, claiming the old ways of the Iron Islands were his own. I had once asked what they were, but father had ordered Theon not to tell any of us, at least until he gave his approval.

The friendship between Jon and Harren had grown quickly after that.

"And that's the last of it."

Harren and Jon were quick to get out of the pen, likely having seen enough of it for a good while.

"We need to get cleaned up before lessons." Harren started towards to the keep when we heard the bell toll. The sign to the castle inhabitants, and the people of Winter Town, the day was now half passed.

Though to us, it generally meant something very different. It meant our lessons with father were starting in the Godswood, and none of us wanted to have to clean the horses stables next for being overly late.

"Sorry, Guys. It looks like you'll have to bear with it a while." I couldn't quite stifle the laugh at just how putout Harren looked about it all, his boots and trousers covered nearly to the knee in smears of awful.

He only tossed me a halfhearted glare before we started on our way towards the Godswood, his grumblings of injustice, Jon and mines entertainment for the brief trip.

The trek took only a few minutes before the Heart Tree came into view, my father sitting at its' roots, wiping Ice with a silken clothe.

The soft fabric, damp and red.

I knew father had rode out near dawn, though mother had been unwilling to tell us anything further than, "checking on a nearby village". I can only guess something had happen along the way.

"Come boys, sit."

We moved quickly, sitting near the edge of the hot spring that rested at the foot of the large Heart Tree.

Father looked us over, his mouth pinching up at the corners as he as saw the state of Harren. "Tell me boys, what is the most important responsibility for a Lord?"

I tried to think back to all our previous lessons, but those were always about the gods and beliefs of the first men. Father had never asked us a question like this so suddenly before…what happened on his ride out?

From the corner of my eye, I could see Jon and Harren, their faces scrunched up in mild confusion. I bit back a sigh, as father's heir, I should probably answer first.

"The most important duty, of the Lord of Winterfell, is to rule over his vassal lords well?" I bit back the urge to take it back, I hadn't meant for it to sound like I was asking a question, instead of answering it.

Father gave a small smile, though before I could be excited he said, "I didn't ask about our house Robb. I'm asking, what is the most important responsibility, for any Lord, no matter how Great or lowly."

The cringe came before I could fight it back, my answer had been horribly off. I had been thinking of only of my own house, not of all Lords as a whole. It was frustrating though, because I couldn't think of something that the Lord of a Holdfast and a Lord Paramount would have in common.

"Um…" I looked over to Harren, he was fidgeting slightly under father's stare. "All lords have their obligation towards the King."

At first, I want to scold myself for forgetting that all lords took the same oath to the King, but then, my father just smiled at Harren like he had at me, and once more, shook his head.

"All lords, Harren, Great and lowly, that means even the King."

Harren's shoulders fell, and he started to play with the bear fur on his cloak, his face pinched in a familiar frustration.

"All Lords must keep the King's peace?" We all looked to Jon then, his brow knitted like he was trying to solve one of the Maester's riddles.

Father's smile grew, and he nodded to Jon. "That's half the answer Jon, keeping the king's Peace is important. There's more though, not everything that threatens the people will come wielding steel and wanting pillage."

He lifts his sword then, we all watch in awe as the light slipping through the canopy of the ancient grove reflected off the Smokey grey metal. It disappears, inch by inch, into the worn leather sheath.

"Remember children, that most threats can not be sorted through blood." Father placed Ice to the side then, laying it against the ashen trunk. "Starvation doesn't care how much steel you threaten it with. Poverty doesn't care how great your sword arm may be. Disease and despair do not care what magic you bring to bear."

"A Lords' duty, his first and greatest obligation, is to save his people from the horrors of the world. Not just the beasts that rise in men when they hold steel, but all enemies, no matter the shape they may take."

Father's seemed to age so much that moment, going from the wise and powerful Lord, to an expression I had only ever seen him wear on the day he came back with Theon.

A man who was tired and worn threadbare.

"You will fail, every Lord fails. It isn't possible to save everyone, no matter how hard we might try. Today it was desperate men, looking for a way out of a life no one would have chosen. In that dark place their hearts fell into, they took up steel and decided their ease was more important than the lives they would inevitably take."

He stood then, motioning with a hand for us to stand in kind. We scrambled up, Jon stumbling slightly before Harren caught his arm and steadied him. Father looked over us all, his smile long forgotten, his face solemn, but proud.

"Being a lord is like being a father, except you have thousands of children, and you worry about all of them. The farmer plowing the fields is yours to protect, the charwomen scrubbing the floors, yours to protect, the soldiers you order into battle."

"How do you bare it?" I looked to Harren, his voice low, almost desperate. It took me a moment to figure out why, Harren was already a Lord, and that meant the lives of his people were already on his shoulders. "It…sounds like a such a scary thing."

"I wake with fear in the morning and go to bed with fear in the night. If you are not afraid for your people, then you should not be leading them."

"But you're not afraid of anything" I cut in quickly, I'd seen father fight men twice his size in the training yard, seen him talk Bannermen in to submission with little more than a greeting. He was the Stark of Winterfell, if even he was afraid…

"How can a man be brave if he's afraid?" My voice sounded weak, unsure if I truly wanted the answer.

"That's where you're wrong, Robb." Father was smiling again, but it was brittle and pained. "That is the only time a man can be brave."

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 **Authors Note:**

 **I wanted to incorporate my favorite scene from the series, and this seemed like the perfect moment for it. I know there are some people afraid I'll turn Harren into another Ned or Jon, but I have different plans for how Harren's personality will develop, but Eddard Stark will be an important part of that.**

 **Most have probably already figured it out, but I will not be writing some conniving and power hunger southern noble clambering for the Iron Throne, if that's what you wanted, you will be disappointed.**


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